


A Sanctimonious Pair

by witchkings



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood, Cult of Melkor, Desperation, Gore, M/M, Númenor, Object Kink, Penetration, Sacrifices, Self-pleasuring, Violence, Yearning, high priest!Mairon, statue fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27759379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: Mairon contemplates his reasons for founding the Cult of Melkor and reverts to desperate measures when his longing for his master overcomes him.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	A Sanctimonious Pair

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, Mairon gets naughty when he's alone. Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> tw: blood, violence

Mairon was deliberate with everything he did. He planned for every eventuality and attributed a greater why to all his actions. His schemes might, at times, appear misguided and not always come to fruition, but there was always an underlying rationale to them. It was a part of his personal work ethic, the only code of conduct he allowed himself if he was ever to gain that which he had worked all his life for. Until now.

Night had fallen over Númenor and it was starless and overcast, the sky so tinged with impeding thunder that Mairon could not help but be reminded of the storms that used to burst on the Thangorodrim, splintering rock and letting icicles rain down over Angband and the Northern parts of Beleriand at Melkor’s command. Even scattered through the stained-glass window of the temple which depicted those very mountains – with dragons circling overhead so they formed a crown at the top of the likeness of Melkor Mairon had sculpted from black marble shot through with lightning veins of white and purple - the storm seemed ominous and potent. It made Mairon yearn more desperately, all the while putting into question his own motives as he drained the corpse of his latest sacrifice of its blood which he transferred to a decanter.

The temple and the cult he had founded with it did not pertain to any greater purpose than to cater to Mairon’s own sentimentality. Surely, a part of it was to gain followers and to restore the glory of the name of Morgoth. But the former could have been done with plenty of methods, most of which did not require institutionalization – though it certainly helped – and none of which relied on Morgoth’s name. Mairon’s own image of terror, Sauron the Abhorred, would have served this goal most ardently.

In many regards, the cult was an unnecessary pastime, yet one Mairon grew to like, even need as his time at court progressed. The temple was not only a towering symbol of his influence at court, a sacred space to practice the violence so deeply ingrained in his essence, it was also a monument to Melkor and a refuge when Mairon’s being felt closest to dissolving by hand of his master’s absence.

Its dome – once silver that gleamed like fire at sunrise and -fall – was charred, blackened by the innumerable sacrifices Mairon had made. This too was an end in itself for the marred structure reminded him of Melkor as he had been, after Mandos and the Silmarils. It was not an iteration of his master that Mairon had appreciated and certainly none that had appreciated him, but he loved it nonetheless and so it had to be a part of this nefarious venture.

Mairon sighed and caressed the dead man’s brow. His skin was tanned and flaky from too much exposure to the sun and the salt-whipping winds. He had been a sailor or some such, someone who would not be missed as his absence would be attributed to a liquor-induced coma or a tumble into the depths. Neither were entirely inaccurate. With a flick of his wrist, Mairon incinerated the body and took the decanter to the statue.

Melkor glowered down his long nose, displayed the armour he had worn in the years when Arda had been but a child and he had warred with his siblings over domination of the land. Crudely hewn, coarse panels of iron, blackened with the blood of the world, his malevolence, Mairon’s flame. Jagged spikes that burst from his shoulders as though coming from his insides and gauntlets that could crush skulls of the likes of the Red Maw. His face was unblemished, still angelic and cruel in its beauty with a long pointy nose and eyes that burned like the depths of the void. His hair like streams of ichor down his front and back. Mairon bowed before this image of his master and though it was but a bland copy, he rather thought he had done Melkor’s former glory justice. The glare, the dissenting curl of his lip, the equally brittle warhammer Grond in Melkor’s right hand, all that he had copied exactly and if he but squinted, Mairon could convince himself it needed only a gust of the sulfuric breath of a balrog or a dragon to reanimate Melkor. A kiss by his most devoted servant would not wake him, Mairon had tried as much and he was willing to swear on his life to the conviction that he was the only one fit for that position. Not with all that he had sacrificed, all that he had offered and executed on Melkor’s orders, in Melkor’s name, with Melkor’s vision in mind. Mairon shuddered to recall those memories which he harboured closest to his heart, the ones that involved their most intimate moments, and his core stirred. His carnal body flared with heat, his length hardened and throbbed.

It had been too long without his master’s genuine touch, too long since Mairon had been brought to pleasure so intense it could sate him. He put down the decanter of blood by the base of Grond’s thorny handle and slipped out of his outer coat the colour of lava and folded it neatly, put it next to the decanter. Then came his priest’s robes, ashen-coloured with golden embroidery down the front. The black hand of Morgoth, the emblem of the Balrog clan, a curling dragon. Underneath, he wore only a thin shift of nearly translucent, slippery satin which hugged his aching shaft. 

There was one way to solve this particular predicament and though it would not compare, nor last long, Mairon had to employ it or else he would go mad with yearning. Every fibre of his being was pulled towards Melkor, as it would always be, and if this was the most convincing version of his master available, then Mairon would make use of it. Picking up the decanter, Mairon murmured an incantation which barred the temple’s doors and veiled the windows by colouring them in darker tones. He had performed many a ritual in this space with all eyes on him, naked before the kings of men, but this was for him alone to enjoy. Another ceremony with no purpose other than to feast his lesser instincts on.

Mairon climbed up the dozen steps that led up to the ornamented marble bowl that set on a podium to Melkor’s right and emptied the decanter of blood into it which filled it to the brim. The liquid was so dark it appeared black and Mairon had woven a spell about the vessel to keep the blood from curdling. He cast the carafe aside and it clattered to the cobble-stone floor with metallic echoes that sang through the circular space and amplified each other until Mairon’s ears rang with it. A song of chaos. He dipped his hands into the bowl, staining his fingers red and he dragged them across his lips and cheeks, revelling in the warmth it still contained. Never-fading and this too was courtesy of his magic. As though it had spilled freshly from the pulse of the last sacrifice.

“This is no good,” Mairon murmured and slipped the shift over his head, let it ripple to the floor next to the decanter. This required more than just a taste, more than a hint of warmth. Forming a cup with his palms, Mairon filled his hands with blood and emptied it over his collarbone, craning his neck to gain better access.

The warmth of it seeped into his bones, the coppery stench of it helped him to relax. Human blood did not smell so differently from the type elves carried in their veins and Melkor used to return to Utumno drenched down to his deepest crevices in it. Like that, he would take Mairon, celebrate his victory in ways that would to others have been demeaning, destructive, but to Mairon had marked some of the instances in his life where he felt at his truest, his closest to his own nature. The thought, combined with the diluted red that ran down his bare chest, travelled in rivers along the sensible spots of his stomach, caressed his hips and gathered at his groin to slip down his thighs, made him moan softly. He scooped up another handful of blood and smeared it over his shoulders, let it trickle down his back where it ran down his spine in a current of exquisite heat. He shuddered when it hit the parts of him Melkor had so loved to ravage. They felt hollow now, and Mairon dipped his fingers in the blood once more, sloshing around in it as he bent over the bowl so that his erection was trapped between the stone and his stomach. Stepping his legs apart and back, Mairon brought his wet hand to his backside and gently inserted a finger, giving his body little time to acclimate to it before he added the second. His muscle was dry and unforgiving and so he pulled them out again, immersed them once more, then went back to his hole which gradually loosened up. Bent over that bowl, the tips of his hair hanging in the red liquid, Mairon worked himself open. His cock pulsated and shivers ran up and down his body as he scissored himself, reached for more blood than added a third finger so he could fuck himself properly with it.

It wasn’t enough and how could it be when this was just him, trying to mime a presence that had long been ripped away from him. Mairon glanced to the left where Melkor sat, solemnly staring ahead. His master’s left hand rested on his cold thigh, two fingers and a thumb raised in half a dismissive gesture as he had displayed frequently. It was as though Mairon’s subconscious had built it to do more than just represent Melkor as he had been. As though it had been sculpted for this exact, forbidden purpose. Mairon wiped his bloody fingers on his own thighs, brushing his pulsing shaft with his thumbs. He moaned feebly, then gathered his wits and climbed up his master’s thigh which hovered two feet above him. The ridges in the armour gave him the perfect leverage and dug into his legs and palms when he knelt on it, his back to Melkor’s disapproving glare as had so often been the case. The marble sizzled coolly against his skin so that it felt overly sensitive, close to aching with sensation. He lowered his forehead down and his cock jumped, a bead of his pleasure escaping it. With his face pressed against the top of Melkor’s hard thigh, and his legs positioned to either side of that hand Mairon reached back to spread his buttocks and expose himself to the intrusion.

It was tricky at first as the fingers were spread and Mairon was not yet stretched wide enough to take both in so he scooted back on one, hissing against the cool intrusion. The blood wasn’t nearly lubricant enough and his own fingers were laughable compared to Melkor’s marble ones. Burning white filled his vision as he closed his eyes and he welcomed the pain as a phantom of what Melkor used to subject him to. Unyielding and stiff, the finger stretched him open and soon, it wasn’t enough. Mairon braced himself on his hands and rocked his hips back and forth, foregoing gentleness in favour of more of that pain, of the ghost of Melkor penetrating him. His hands and legs were still slick with blood so he had barely any leverage and the marble was too smooth so he scrambled for a proper rhythm, fucking himself on the statue with uncontrolled, jerky movements that made him gasp. Once, he slipped, hand sliding out from underneath him and he slid off the finger at an angle to that it dug painfully into his flesh. Mairon lay on his stomach for several breaths, waiting for the blinding sensation to fizzle out. Then, he pushed back onto Melkor’s hand, halting to take in the second finger. It didn’t matter now that his body wasn’t ready for it, his spirit needed to be filled out. Stretched close to breaking point. Mairon bit down on the pain, a few tears slipping down his cheeks and he tasted copper and salt on his lips as he willed to bumps to rise from the marble so he could use them as handholds.

He went at it in earnest then. With the grips to steady him, Mairon hammered down on the two hands. Blood, his own this time, trickled down between his thighs and with every push of his hips, the fingers dug deeper into him, filling him out, carving Melkor’s name onto his insides in blood and torn flesh and something unspeakable and dark that Mairon was sure he would feel until his corporeal body was destroyed, if ever it would be. He panted and groaned, shouting Melkor’s name into the emptiness of the vaulted dome and it was thrown back at him hundredfold. Mairon found a rhythm that drove him to lunacy and beyond, and right there, on the verge of his climax, he thought he could hear a rumbling laugh.

_Years later and you are still the same_ , it said and a gust of wind hushed against Mairon’s red-stained lips like an invisible kiss. _My pretty little whore._

Mairon moaned feebly which quickly descended into a guttural groan as his orgasm hit him at the same time that he drove himself down onto the fingers once more and his cock spurted his release all over his chest and neck. With tears in his eyes, Mairon sobbed as he rocked himself through the waves of it. Too soon, he was interrupted, torn brutally out of his haze and his air of superiority and haughtiness slammed back into place by some visceral instinct.

“High Priest,” someone gasped below and Mairon lazily lowered his chin, gazing down. A young initiate stood below in his ceremonial robes, one hand resting in the ashes on the altar, his face contorted in shock. He had to have been in the temple when Mairon locked it and now he would make a fine next sacrifice.

“A pity you had to come and reveal yourself,” Mairon drawled and scooped up some of the mixture of blood and semen that stuck to his skin, then licked it off his fingers as the initiate watched on with ever-growing revulsion. “You had showed such promise.”

“I do not presume to judge you, mylord,” the initiate replied and sunk to his knees on the spot, head bowed. He was quick-witted, that one, but that was dangerous. Just because his words were obedient, did not mean his mind was. He would question Mairon sooner or later.

“Even if you did, your last transgression doomed you.”

“Mylord?”

“Precisely,” Mairon said and flicked his wrist. The man’s neck snapped with a crunch and he crumpled on the spot. “There is only one lord in these halls.” He gazed up at Melkor’s unmoving features and gently extracted himself from the rigid fingers.

“Thank you,” he whispered, praying that one day soon, it would be hands made from flesh and hatred that penetrated him as such, hoping that in the not too distant future, Melkor would reply.


End file.
